no sky at all
no earth at all
still
then snow flakes fall…

Once, reading of blossoms and
besottedness of great
haiku poets, I accepted
their empty sake
casks, good

for bringing my own lavender and yarrow in—
for they admired rice, approved moon,
boated and fanned,
and never spoiled spring
nights with anything—

apart from words trying to ferment.
Their images patched
the rent silk of stomach,
liver, head. No mother’s milk
was ever sipped

from such light syllables,
nor falling on the stairs
unscrolled
in such transportive verse.
My idols’

gazes rolled
up like pear blossoms
in March, tolled round
and round like hail in April.
They did write it pretty

once, those poets
before car keys.
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Hope this prints up with the proper line breaks. It’s in Expectation Days (Illinois, 2007)